


as inevitable as mathematics

by Aerielz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But expect a different take on this ship, F/M, Gen, Post-The Final Problem, Pre-Relationship, This Will Become Sherlolly At Some Point I Promise, plot plot plot, this has probably already been done before, who am i kidding it definitely has been done before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9954065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerielz/pseuds/Aerielz
Summary: The chain reaction of procedures a security breach in a place like Sherrinford triggers involves emergency containment, a thorough inventory of damages, zero tolerance and the waking up of the competent authorities from their sleep. With even Mycroft Holmes on the spot it’s no surprise when they are all but handcuffed to the table of their very individual interrogation rooms. It’s a game of trust, or lack thereof, that Sherlock knows better than to start questioning.Your obligatory post-The Final Problem story, with somewhat of a plot. Centered around the relationship between Eurus and Sherlock, the changes on his relationship with Molly, and the decisions one has to make when it comes to rebuilding a life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably a mistake. Mostly because I'm very bad with anything with more than one chapter. _But_ since I'm not planing to make this very big - 6 to 8 chapters, I imagine -, I say _let's do this_. 
> 
> ~~Famous last words.~~
> 
> A word of warning: chapters not scheduled or written yet, so this might take a while. But since I'm proving a point this year, this _will_ be written to completion, no matter what.
> 
> Also: not betaed, so there will be mistakes. Feel free to point out all and every mistake and every instance in which I failed to remember the differences between British and American english.
> 
> ~~Specially because I'm not American either.~~

The ambulance is there, but they skip most of the health check. As soon as the helicopter that carries a blank-staring Eurus Holmes lifts from the ground there is an agent on both his sides, subtly and surely escorting Sherlock into another helicopter on the other side of the lawn. With the rotors already on and a suited Intelligence agent crowding John’s space too, they have little room for choice.

They’re breathing and standing, after all, and as far as the MI5 is concerned, it’s enough.

The chain reaction of procedures a security breach in a place like Sherrinford triggers involves emergency containment, a thorough inventory of damages, zero tolerance and waking up the competent authorities from their sleep. With even Mycroft Holmes on the spot it’s no surprise when they are all but handcuffed to the table of their very individual interrogation rooms. It’s a game of trust, or lack thereof, that Sherlock knows better than to question.

Still, there’s special treatment. A steaming cup of tea and a bag of chips await him on top of the sterile stainless steel table when they parade him inside.

He’s left alone with his thoughts for half an hour before someone comes in through the door, and thankfully enough his thoughts also leave him alone. Like in the worst days of his early years as a drug addict, the aftermath of chaos and mayhem is a shell shock type of calmness that speaks of months of sleepless nights to come.

He’s halfway to the bag of chips when his debriefer sit before him on a metal chair like his own. She’s a tall, skinny, woman that Sherlock figures must be just shy of her forties. Dark hair cropped just above her chin, rigid martial posture barely hidden by an artificially casual stance. No, not artificial. Just new. To her. The final digits of her badge number tells Sherlock the tale of a new arrival.

“Mr. Holmes, the younger.” Mrs. New Arrival says.

Sherlock can’t find his voice, but he nods politely. He always finds himself reverting to his early education whenever in emergency states. _Yes, brother, as you’ll like it_ , when in drug parlors. _Yes, sister, as you’ll like it_ , not two full hours ago.

“That must’ve hurt.” She continues, a look of genuine concern in her face, pointing to the hand that fishes the chips from the plate.

Sherlock looks down to find his knuckles red and swollen, the skin on his fingers ripped, here and there. His hands shake a little, and the ring finger on his right hand throbs. It’s broken in some unimportant way, he thinks, but the pain is still far away.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock says, finally, carrying a trembling piece of potato to his mouth.

“Compared to the rest of it, definitely…” New Arrival says.

Sherlock has mercy on himself and allows the side of his mouth to curl upwards.

“Found the security tapes, already?”

“She wiped them.” New Arrival says, unimpressed. “But the look on your face says a lot.”

Her voice is soft, her face honest to a fault, and she has no file in front of her. New Arrival’s tiptoeing around the subject of Eurus’ takeover of Sherrinford has Sherlock’s interest picked.

“Government agents aren’t usually this careful.”

“Interrogation personal changes from setting to setting, person to person.”

“And if you had read my file you’d know that careful doesn’t work on me.”

New Arrival smiles and she leans forward, elbows to the table. “Past a certain point everyone has read your file, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then don’t be careful.”

“You’ve had enough violence in the past twelve hours to last a lifetime, why would you need any more?”

And then he gets it.

“You’re a psychiatrist.” He says, almost lets out a tired sigh. “That’s definitely new.”

“From setting to setting…”

“And person to person.” He completes. “You should also know psychiatrists don’t usually work on me, either.”

“You’ll excuse the cliche, but there’s very little that’s usual about all of this, Mr. Holmes.” He picks up his food, takes it to his mouth without haste. Had he been hard pressed to agree he would’ve, but she doesn’t go that way. Instead she says “Now, care to tell me how you got those?” while pointing to his hands again.

He follows her gaze, studies his knuckles and sees the story of his own rage in the direction of the splinters and in the placement of the bruises that already start to bloom. 

He opens his mouth, still looking down, starts from the beginning, and delivers a fairly accurate, if calculated, account of what happened earlier that day. She lets him talk, never interrupting, never asking any questions, never reacting much more than the expected. The events of that day sound absurd and on the wrong side of fantastic, which is why he never bothered reading John’s blog, but it’s not hard to talk about it. He finds, in the structure of his story, the solace of having to be coherent, organised, and somewhat convincing. It grounds him. Brings him back to himself.

“It was… an unpleasant reencounter.” He concludes.

New Arrival nods, with a blank expression that he doesn’t bother reading further into. Impressed-curious-thinking, behind the veneer of professionalism. Your regular government-issue reaction.

“And I’m afraid it won’t be a very pleasant aftermath.” She answers.

He has a sister he couldn’t remember because of childhood trauma that will likely start to resurface in the form of nightmares, the unearthing of buried memories and the familiar urges to come back to his drug-abusing days.

“I shouldn’t think so.” He deadpans. “Eurus, what will happen to her?”

“That’s one good question.” She stands up, pulls on the cuffs of her sleeves absentmindedly. “It’s a delicate situation, I’m not sure you’re on the need-to-known list.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Ah, yes.” A knowing smile. “ _Family_.”

She says that last word with a somewhat dramatic inflection.

“I suppose.”

New Arrival lifts her head and meets his gaze fully.

“Are you sure careful doesn’t work on you?”

The words reach Sherlock with the sudden realisation that his bones weight tons, and that the world around him feels like it’s underwater. He wants a cup of tea, his bed and the wallpaper in 221b, but they blew the place up, he remembers.

“I’m just tired.”

“The good news is,” She says, gesturing for him to stand up too. New Arrival opens the only door in the room and they’re out in the endless maze of corridors that is the MI5 headquarters subbasement. It’s grey and soulless, much like Sherrinford. “there’s a couch on the debriefing room. You could probably get away with a quick kip if you’re careful.”

Her step is quick, even if her legs are shorter than his. He finds himself having to pay attention to keep up with her pace.

“I’ve just been debriefed.”

“You’ve been interrogated.”

“Big difference.” He rolls his eyes.

“Actually…” She pauses suddenly in front of a nondescript door, pushes, and they’re inside another corridor, shorter this time. Only one door at the end of it. The lights come on, New Arrival swipes her card on the secure door, they go through, the lights come out. “There is.”

The first thing that strikes as odd to Sherlock on the new room is that it is smaller than he expected. There’s not an endless table with lots of chairs, and things don’t look very official or formal. There’s just, as New Arrival said, a long couche, and pair of armchairs that resembled a lot his old one on Baker Street, with a low table between them. It’s like his own living room, scaled down a notch and a little bit boring.

The second things that strikes him as odd is that the Prime Minister sits on one of the corners of the couch he intended to fully occupy.

So much for resting.

He’s the last ones in there, as it’d seem. Mycroft sits opposite  the PM, and John is stiff as a rod, looking as if he’s about to fall face first into the ground in tiredness, standing on the far side of the room.

Sherlock finds enough of his dramatic flair and disregard for authority in himself to plop down on the armchair across the Prime Minister. She doesn’t acknowledge him formally, but eyes him with something that looks a lot like understanding. He almost regrets his action. It feels flat and childish in a way that having his arse uncovered in the Buckingham palace did not.

“Now that all of the involved parties are here I imagine you have a good reason for dragging me out of my bed, Mycroft.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, sure that the quasi friendship between his brother and the PM will keep them to entertained to notice. It’s not _his_ debriefing, apparently.

“I’m sure you’ve heard.” His older brother starts, opting for snide himself. “The security in Sherrinford has suffered some… hiccups.”

“Hiccups, Mycroft?”

“There was a whole drama involving Eurus Holmes.”

“Your sister.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath and a second too long to answer.

“My sister.”

“That’s why you’re there, isn’t it? To spare me from having to handle this messy matters myself.”

“Precisely.”

“Then handle it.”

“It’s… being handled.” He said, taking another strangely long pause between words. It strikes Sherlock as odd, his brother’s tamed and quiet tone, because he can speculate a hundred reason for it’s cause, but can’t find his way to the right one.

Deduction _is_ quite a soft science, he reminds himself. It’s about circumstance and, he regrets the word as soon as it comes to his mind, _context._

For all said context his sister provided that afternoon, the consequences of her actions have left the world around him floating on top of a sea of uncertainties.

“Then why am I here?” The PM asks.

“Because I’m not the one who’ll be handling it.” Mycroft says. “The new administration is being put together by the competent parties. They’ll take control of the institute while I’m under investigation, and, let’s be honest, will probably stay there well beyond that.”

The PM answers, but Sherlock doesn’t pick up what she’s saying. As the she and Mycroft engage in a long back-and-forth of witty stabs at each other and glossed over accounts of that godawful day that doesn’t end, Sherlock finds himself starting to drift off.

He can now add _slept in an important meeting with the Prime Minister_ to his list of insults to the British government. His is by no accounts an unexciting life, he concludes. Rosie will like his stories, when she’s old enough to listen to them.

 _Rosie_ , he thinks, with a drowsy smile. He focuses his mind on his goddaughter’s endless spewing of gibberish while trying to figure out how exactly he’ll spoil the girl’s education with cuss words and sweets before dinner. He walks the hallways of his memories and finds the doors that lead to her. It’s the first path that doesn’t feel like walking on shards of broken glass.

“I take it not the entirety of the security in the facility has been compromised?” The PM continues, somewhere far, far, in the real world.

“Fortunately, no.” Explains his brother. “We have a team accessing the damage, but as interesting as it is, Eurus’ Game was contained to the lower levels. Repairs will be somewhat costly because of protocol and personal changes, but even their little trip to Musgrave Hall was an insulated event.”

“Not a disaster for Great Britain, then, just a pounding migraine for Intelligence.” Concludes the PM.

“Such are the prices of maintaining a highly valuable asset.”

“I must say, Mycroft…” The PM’s voice turns a tad stern. Sherlock’s mind find memories of his mum, and he can almost see his sister beside him, this time, being lectured, looking just as bored as himself. He steers his mind back to Rosamund, her death grip on his fingers when he plays with her. “Sometimes your assets cause us more trouble than not.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the woman’s glare over him. Mycroft doesn’t say anything. The silence doesn’t bother him, or so he tells himself.

“Does anyone outside this room had anything to do with this whole nightmare?” She asks, conversational, this time, and curiosity and probing in her voice.

“Trusted third parties.” Says Mycroft. “Members of the NSY, mainly, that helped take Dr. Watson, and my brother and sister out of Musgrave. And we had to take a small team to London.”

A figure crosses Sherlock in the room in his mind. Someone is there with him and Rosie; not John, no, John is always so obvious in his mind when he’s there. But it’s just as pleasant, and so much more confusing. Because along with pleasant he can feel the broken shards scraping against his memories and his sleep addled mind struggles to figure out why.

“London?”

“A quick operation.” Mycroft assures the PM. “Eurus had a small surveillance set up inside the flat of one-“

 _Molly_ , he realises, just as he glimpses the long ponytail and sees Rosie safely held in her arms.

“Dr. Molly Hooper.” His brother finishes along with him, and Sherlock comes back to the surface of his own mind all at once.

The PM starts to speak again, but Sherlock interrupts, asking “Is she alright?”.

A quick pause. He feels everyone’s eyes in him, his own still closed, because he doesn’t want to see the look on John’s face.

“She’s been debriefed.” Mycroft says. Irritation grows in his chest, helped by the shot of adrenalin that fills his bloodstream with urgency when Molly finds her way to the forefront of his mind again.

“Not what I asked.”

“She was tad upset, when we got there, but Dr. Hooper’s ability to recover and forgive have never ceased to amaze those who come in contact with her.”

High praise, coming from his older brother. Or a testament to her foolishness.

“I’m hoping this contained incident stays contained.” The PM says, all warning, changing the subject to what, for her, matters. “After all, Sherrinford is not necessarily my problem. But I’ll make it my problem, if need be.”

The words spin his worries to his sister, but it’s not a threat, just a fact, Sherlock reminds himself, flexing his hands while irritation plays a crescendo in his chest.

His mind is everywhere, he notices. In the flexing of the PM’s words that could change the fate of his sister; in the jagged edges of the memories of all the terrible things he’s done to Molly Hooper; in the glare that he knows John shoots him from the other side of the room, in the fact that, when they leave the MI5, he can’t go back to his flat in Baker Street because his flat doesn’t exist anymore.

“It’ll be handled, Laura.” Mycroft says, addressing the prime minister by her first name. “I’m sure the new team will be doing a great job, or something like that. It’ll take a while, but things will sort themselves out.”

“And until then?” She asks.

“Until then,“ Mycroft says “we endure.”

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Watch me fail to extend the end montage into a story.~~


End file.
